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The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng; Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords,
It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire Quivered and seemed almost to heave, Clothed with innocuous fire; But, where we stood, the setting sun Showed little of his state; And, if the glory reached the Nun, "Twas through an iron grate.
Not always is the heart unwise,
If even a passing Stranger sighs
Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
By one soft trickling tear that stole
BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE.
WHAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?
Was it to disenchant, and to undo,
That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine?
If from a traveller's fortune I might claim
Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach
That ROLAND clove with huge two-handed sway,
AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
A WINGED Goddess-clothed in vesture wrought
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.
IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE.
O FOR the help of Angels to complete
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings
IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE.
AMID this dance of objects sadness steals
O'er the defrauded heart-while sweeping by,
THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE.
Nor, like his great Compeers, indignantly
Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels: (Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
The venerable pageantry of Time,
Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime, And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine? To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze
Such sweet way-faring-of life's spring the pride, Her summer's faithful joy-that still is mine, And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's flight
When the first Ship sailed for the Golden Fleece-
To fix in heaven her shape distinct with stars.
ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN.
Or Idleness in tatters mendicant
The strain should flow-free Fancy to enthral,
This bold, this bright, this sky-born, WATERFALL†!
THE FALL OF THE AAR-HANDEC.
FROM the fierce aspect of this River, throwing
And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink
Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : They suck-from breath that, threatening to destroy,
* See Note.
Is more benignant than the dewy eve—
NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUN.
Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was CaptainGeneral of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country.
AROUND a wild and woody hill
A gravelled pathway treading,
We reached a votive Stone that bears
Well judged the Friend who placed it there
The Sun regards it from the West;
He sets, his sinking yields a type
And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss Amid the grove to linger;
Till all is dim, save this bright Stone Touched by his golden finger.
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS.
DOOMED as we are our native dust
It ill befits us to disdain
The altar, to deride the fane,
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust
I love, where spreads the village lawn,
Where'er we roam-along the brink
Be Charity!-to bid us think,
OH Life! without thy chequered scene
Pain entered through a ghastly breach-
SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ.
"WHAT know we of the Blest above
A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir,
IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL,
This Tower stands upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against which his Son is said to have been placed, when the Father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss Story.
WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here,
And when that calm Spectatress from on high Looks down-the bright and solitary Moon, Who never gazes but to beautify;
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recals;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
How blest the souls who when their trials come
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom,
THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ.
By antique Fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred
ON HEARING THE RANZ DES VACHES ON THE TOP OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD.
I LISTEN but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect, Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine (So fame reports) and die,-his sweet-breath'd kine
Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject The tale as fabulous.-Here while I recline, Mindful how others by this simple Strain
* Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion,) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon it the laws of their governors.
Are moved, for me upon this Mountain named
The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary-scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but everywhere something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes: near the ruins were some ill tended, but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!"-Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years-Extract from Journal.
DREAD hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,
This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone
To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm
Of his half-open hand pure from blemish or speck; And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm
Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;